


circling

by xpityx



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9875747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: Emhyr sighed, as if Geralt’s lack of immediate understanding was a fundamental failure of his character.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, don't look at me.

 

It had started out well enough.

 

Which, now he considers it, is a phrase that could describe half his life. The other half could be described as starting out badly and then rolling downhill from there into a ulfhedinn's lair whilst bleeding out from a stab wound to the arse.

 

There had been two women and a young man working the inn last night, and all three had offered a roll around upstairs for his brave slaughter of the griffin that had been picking off cattle for the last two months, but the woman with deep red hair and crow's feet that fanned out from the corners of her eyes when she laughed had been an easy choice to make.

 

Now, here he was, watching that self same woman scramble backwards from where he had caught her crouched over a small glass pot, stickily gathering his spent seed as it ran from her cunt.

 

Geralt sighed.

 

~*~*~

 

After he'd unsheathed a knife, and then had had to sheath it again so the woman, Ilia, would calm down enough to form sentences, she'd told him that they'd all been given a half a crown each to bed him and bring his seed to the last house past the bridge, on the northern road out of town.

 

Geralt rode there now, more curious than angry. If it had been his blood then he would've unsheathed his swords in the inn, his earnings be damned. Blood and a name were all some mages needed to bind you to their will and, although it was unlikely that such a spell would have much effect on the White Wolf, the thought still made him grind his teeth. Spent seed though, there was little danger of someone attempting a powerful spell will such an inert ingredient. More than likely he would find an old crone, eager to regain her youth or an old man his vigour. He shuddered, and spurred Roach into a trot, keen to be done with this village and be on his way.

 

He knew that Ilia had not lied to him, no one who had stunk of fear like that could lie, but as he crested the bridge and saw the plainly abandoned shack, he wondered.

 

There was no crone waiting for her youth to return to her, but someone had been inside recently, and a horse had been tied up behind the building, despite the hooks at the front for that very purpose, so there had been an attempt to hide from casual observers at least. Geralt made a last walk around before swinging himself back into the saddle - the person, a woman, he thought, judging from the shoe size and lightness of step, had less than an hour’s head start on him.

 

He had been wrong. Three towns over, not far from Nilfgaard, a young, slender man with the slight air of nobility about him took one look at Geralt as he walked into the roadside tavern and stiffened in surprise. Perhaps it wouldn't have been noticeable to someone who was not a witcher, but even without the tell, he smelt of an abandoned shack that lay two leagues behind them both. Geralt got himself and the boy a drink and made his way over to the lad’s table.

 

“Can I help you, sir?” He had a high, sweet voice and his hands around his drink were deep brown and soft.

 

“You smell like fear, road dust, and the same horse that was tied up a couple of leagues down the road about three hours ago, so how about we skip this part?”

 

The boy swallowed, and his eyes flickered left toward the nearest door.

 

“You wouldn't even make it to standing, lad,” Geralt told him, honestly.

 

“It's not his fault.”

 

“You better start from the beginning”, Geralt said, as kindly as he could.

 

~*~*~

 

Geralt shook his head as if to clear it, “so your father, a member of the Imperial Guard and the second son of House Sorren, took ill with a fever and instead of, perhaps, _telling_ someone he was ill, instructed you to carry out his last orders which had come directly from the Emperor himself? Which had been to… what? Milk my snake?”

 

The lad, Michile, frowned in puzzlement before looking scandalised.

 

“What? No! Of course not! His orders were to find the witcher, Geralt of Rivera and take the fresh oil of his sword.”

 

Geralt put his face into his hands and groaned aloud.

 

~*~*~

 

He was only a two day's hard ride from the palace, he reasoned, and Emhyr would want to know that a member of the Imperial Guard was, in the name of the Emperor no less, riding around trying to win an amount of Geralt's...

 

No, no matter how he phrased it sounded as if he had taken leave of his senses.

 

He was just going to consider himself lucky that the prostitutes had had a good grasp of metaphor. He dreaded to think what would have happened if they'd tried to touch his _actual_ sword.

 

Maybe he could start with a little small talk or a game of chance, it was not unheard of for Geralt to spend an evening in the palace when he was in the vicinity, although admittedly very rarely without Ciri being there to deftly steer them away from troubled topics of conversation.

 

He also imagined half a bottle of good brandy would do him a world of good at this stage.

 

~*~*~

 

“Ah,” said Emhyr when he looked up from his desk as Geralt walked in.

 

Geralt stopped dead, “ _What do you mean, 'ah’?!_ I thought it was some,” he made a quick gesture that attempted to communicate unfathomable size, “vast miscommunication, not that you had actually ordered one of your men to...,” he hesitated, he had said some truly terrible things to the Emperor in his time, yet he couldn't quite bring himself to say this.

 

“Harvest your seed?” Emhyr suggested.

 

Geralt sat down on the nearest chair.

 

“I'm sure this all makes perfect sense within the snake pit of your own mind, but could you perhaps explain it to a mere mortal such as myself?”

 

“I had a need, you were the nearest witcher, and one with a certain reputation, shall we say. Freshness was a factor, of course.”

 

Geralt continued to stare.

 

Emhyr sighed, as if Geralt’s lack of immediate understanding was a fundamental failure of his character.

 

“A minor attempt was made on my life two weeks ago, unfortunately, the knife that was used was long ago cursed - my interrogators were unable to get to the bottom of if its use was happenstance or by design, however the outcome remains the same, and I am lacking in what my mages tell me is a necessary ingredient.”

 

Geralt, who had been trying to get his head around the concept of a ‘minor’ assassination attempt, realised suddenly that Emhyr had not stood since he'd entered to room. Almost all conversations with Emhyr included the Emperor standing: all the better for him to turn his back when he was done with you, Geralt had always thought.

 

“Why didn't you just ask me?”

 

Emhyr raised an eyebrow to indicate what he thought of that suggestion.

 

Geralt frowned, for all that lay between them, he had thought that perhaps Emhyr knew that Geralt would have at the very least listened to what he had to say, they owed each other that much by this point. He respected Emhyr, although he didn't always agree with his methods, they had come to an understanding of his cause, and he had thought that perhaps Emhyr had respected him in turn.

 

He pushed himself to his feet, cold ire fuelling him: that he had been brought here by subterfuge by this man who had come to him when Ciri was lost, who had stood with him as Ciri was crowned princess of innumerable lands, who had spoken with him when she had struggled on this path she had chosen, but who could not unbend enough to ask for help when it was for himself alone.

 

He walked calmly towards the desk which Emhyr still sat behind, unmoving. From this close he could see the way his jaw was clenched in discomfort, and it only spurred his anger on.

 

“Let me see.”

 

Emhyr didn't pretend to misunderstand him. He stood slowly, with what would look like grace to another but Geralt could see it was pain, and removed his jacket and unlaced his shirt enough to be able to stiffly pull up the side of it to reveal the bloody bandage underneath. It had been a small wound, but more worrying than the fact it was still bleeding sluggishly after all this time, were the silver trails of poison fanning out from under the edge of the bandage, creeping up the Emperor's side.

 

Geralt let Emhyr put himself back together, and not a single sound escaped him as he pulled down his clothing and sat back in his chair.

 

“Where is it?”

 

Emhyr tilted his head in question.

 

“Where is the vessel in which I am to _oil my sword._ ” He challenged.

 

Emhyr carefully leaned sideways and opened a heavy drawer, taking out a cut glass and putting it on the desk in front of Geralt. He kept his eyes on Geralt the entire time, as if he were a wild boar, caged and clawed.

 

“Freshness is a necessity, is it?” He half asked, not waiting for an answer before undoing his breeches and taking himself in hand. He would usually lick his hand for comfort, but that was not what he wanted right now, some part of him knew he needed the brutal edge of pain and anger to keep him from thinking of what exactly he was doing. Stroking himself to hardness with a few rough pulls, his eyes never left Emhyr's as his breath began to come faster.

 

Emhyr himself was made of stone, barely breathing with his hands on his thighs as he held Geralt's gaze for the long minutes it took the witcher to reach an uncomfortable apogee of sexual pleasure and anger.

 

Geralt could now smell his own lust; the mint and scarix of whatever balm Emhyr's healers had used; the faint tang of blood from the assassin's unhealing wound.

 

And the salt of another man's arousal.

 

His eyes went wide in surprise as he was tipped over into his own release, spending himself into the beautiful crystal glass, most likely a gift from an equally rich House.

 

He bowed his head slightly as he caught his breath, then put the glass carefully on the edge of the desk. He blindly did up his breeches and walked out of the Emperor's rooms, barely remembering to retrieve his swords on the way.

 

~*~*~

 

In the first month, he'd come across a strange creature that the locals had claimed to be the Devil herself, who'd started life as a kind of good luck charm, but lately had been fouling the well and stealing grain. The locals had tried to placate the creature with gifts of food and cloth, but she'd continued to play her dirty tricks. The villagers had asked Geralt not to kill the creature, but to drive it off their lands to somewhere else. Rarely did he meet villagers not baying for the blood of the creature he had been tasked to track, so he had been glad of the contract.

 

That was, until he'd discovered that the villagers had dragged an old woman from her home about the same time the devil had lost her charm, for the apparent crime of causing a young woman to die in childbirth with a glance. Reasoning that a woman who could kill with a look would not allow herself to be towed through the dirt by her hair had seemed futile, so Geralt had given up and gone to speak to the devil instead, who had been far more open to reason than the humans.

 

“Foul thing! They call me! Did you see? By her hair! I show them foul! In their well!” The sylvan had spat and bared its yellow teeth.

 

“Why do you care?” Geralt had asked, genuinely curious.

 

“When old woman was a girl she never ran! Always brought flowers and fruit! Others give scraps and always afraid!” Geralt had met many creatures, some more intelligent than others, and some, like this one, kinder than the humans who feared it.

 

“Would you help the old woman, if you could?”

 

“Yes! Yes! For flowers, and no fear.”

 

So Geralt had gone back to the villagers and informed them that they needed to give a double measure of grain, fruit, and milk every week, and one bolt of cloth every month, and in exchange the devil would leave off her tricks and bring luck once again. The villages had agreed at once, eager to be in the monster’s favour once more.

 

The sylvan had snorted and shook her head at the deal, but agreed to take the extra provisions to the old woman who was now living on the opposite edge of the forest. They walked through the forest together to visit the woman, whose name was Toru, and she had been so glad to receive the food and milk that she had wrung her hands and lamented that she had no coin to give the witcher, and no flowers for the devil. Geralt, who had gladly taken coin from the corrupt villagers, told her she needed to do no such thing, but she had insisted. And so they had sat down outside the little shack to drink milk together, the sylvan snorting to herself occasionally, but quieter in the presence of the woman who had shown the creature such kindness.

 

Toru herself had offered her skills as a herbalist, and Geralt had found himself asking for a poultice for a cursed scar before he'd known which words he would choose.

 

“I think that this is not for you,” she'd stated once she was done, looking up at him with rheumy eyes that nevertheless saw far more than most.

 

“No”, he had answered shortly.

 

She'd nodded to herself, “Then my blessings extend to you both.”

 

Geralt had wanted to thank her again, but the words had stuck in his throat, so he'd simply bowed shortly and taken his leave.

 

Five months later and his thoughts still circled back to Emhyr bearing his scar to him, and what had come after.

 

He had missed Ciri's last visit to the castle: he had realised the month whilst sitting by the side of a river, trying not to freeze to death having been recently dumped in the water by Roach, who'd seen a wolf and startled badly. Once he was fit to be seen again he'd ridden into a town and spent all his remaining coin on liquor, getting himself drunk enough to fuck roughly into his hand whilst thinking of the weight of Emhyr's direct gaze on his skin.

 

The next day he'd woken up thoroughly sick of himself, and pointed Roach in the direction of Nilfgaard, the poultice the herbalist had given him all those months ago safe in his saddlebag.

 

~*~*~

 

Geralt had arrived the day before, but had convinced himself he required a night's rest and a hot bath before venturing into the palace to... well, he had not advanced much further than that in his mind.

 

When he had reached the palace, he had told himself that there was always a chance that the Emperor was not currently in residence, or that he would be refused an audience. Of course, it was his luck that he was ushered directly into the Emperor's rooms by the head chamberlain himself.

 

Emhyr looked up when he was announced, but gave no word of welcome to Geralt who, on his part, was wishing fervently that he was type of man to remark on the weather.

 

“You look well.” Geralt tried.

 

Now he was here all he could think of was if there was a way to extricate himself from the room gracefully.

 

Emhyr blinked at him.

 

“I am, with thanks to yourself.”

 

Geralt braced himself to just get it over with, so he could be embarrassed somewhere far, far away from here.

 

“I brought a poultice, a herbalist said that it was suitable for cursed scars…” he trailed off at the look Emhyr was giving him, blank as a stone, as wiped clean of emotion as Geralt had ever seen him.

 

Emhyr stood, and Geralt couldn't help but note that he had regained his easy grace, and showed no sign of lingering pain. He came from around his great desk and began to unhook the teeth and hooks that fastened his heavy jacket together. He placed it on a nearby chair once done, and moved onto his shirt, and then he stood, bare chested, watching Geralt whose eyes had instantly been drawn to the tendriled scar that sat above his left hip.

 

Geralt felt almost as he did when he fought a difficult foe, his body knew what was to be done before his conscious mind had registered that action was even required: he walked three steps forward and went to his knees before the Emperor.

 

Emhyr took a sharp breath, but Geralt ignored him, unhooking the lid of the jar and dipping two fingers into the cream that had been warmed in his hands, before lightly covering the visible scar with a layer that cooled rapidly in the air.

 

At the edges of his vision he could see Emhyr's nipples harden, and felt a tiny shudder underneath his palms, like a ripple in a still lake, as he swept them over the Emperor's side.

 

Geralt, having gotten this far, could not make himself look up, but equally could not take his hands from their place on Emhyr's smooth skin. He stilled and let his head fall forward until his forehead touched the approximate place where the assassin's knife had pierced flesh. After an agonising moment of stillness he felt a hand weave into his hair where it lay in a half tail at the back of his head, and Emhyr slowly but implacably tilted Geralt’s head back until he met his gaze.

 

The Emperor's breathing had noticeably quickened, and the hard line of his thickening cock was visible at Geralt’s eyeline. Geralt himself could not have said what he felt at that exact moment. He had not known, not even in his obsession over Emhyr's scar that had haunted him for months, that he had wanted this, that he had wanted to kneel before this man, not in supplication, but with this vast power in his hands.

 

He had not thought that Emhyr would allow Geralt to see him so undone.

 

He turned his head and mouthed at Emhyr's cock through the thick material of his breeches and revelled in the gasp the gesture caused.

 

His hands trembled slightly as some wellspring of need bubbled up from within him, if he had the power to make Emhyr forget himself with a single touch, what else could he do?

 

Emhyr brought his other hand to join the first in Geralt's hair, smoothing some wayward strands of hair back from his face as he did so, and Geralt took from that small gesture the courage he needed to unbutton his breeches and take Emhyr's straining cock into his mouth. The smell, a hundred fold stronger than the faint scent he had caught so many months ago, made his mouth water embarrassingly as he pushed forward until the head touched the back of his throat. He successfully fought his urge to gag and swallowed around Emhyr's girth, causing the other man to thrust lightly before obviously regaining control of himself.

 

 _Well, that will never do_ , Geralt thought to himself, and started up an earnest campaign with tongue and suction to cause Emhyr to lose himself once more.

 

It did not take long before Emhyr was thrusting carefully into his mouth again, and Geralt moved his hand from Emhyr's thigh to knead at his own straining length. Emhyr reacted by pulling out of Geralt's mouth, leaving a smear of wet on his chin as he did so, and moving his hands to the tops of his arms to encourage him to standing.

 

Facing Emhyr again, Geralt found himself unsure of proper etiquette: if he were with a whore he had bought for the night he would have had no qualms about kissing him now, but the Emperor of the North and South could not be bought and Geralt hesitated to share the taste on his tongue.

 

After a second, Emhyr made the decision for them both, physically turning Geralt and pushing him towards the bedchamber. They stripped on their way, careless of where their clothing landed, and Geralt crawled up the length of the bed, turning to watch Emhyr search through nearby drawers.

 

Emhyr found what he had been looking for and faced the bed, but only held Geralt's gaze for a second before looking away, “On your front, if you will.”

 

“As you ask so politely...” Geralt covered sudden nerves with his words, turning and folding his arms under the plump pillows. He had done this before, but not for some time.

 

He felt Emhyr firmly run one hand up the back of his thigh as he moved up the bed, and flinched only slightly as warm oil was poured between his cheeks. One finger was shortly followed by two, and their harsh breaths were the only sounds in the room as Emhyr finally moved up to replace fingers with cock, in one careful but inexorable thrust.

 

Geralt was aware he was drooling slightly as Emhyr continued to thrust powerfully into him, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that Emhyr couldn’t see the mess he was making of the sheets from this position.

 

As if reading his mind, Emhyr stilled and leaned forward, “Just how flexible are you, master witcher?” he asked directly into the his ear.

 

In reply Geralt turned over in such a way that Emhyr remained deep inside of him, glorying in the involuntary sound his manoeuvre tore from the Emperor. Emhyr narrowed his eyes dangerously and took his revenge by lifting one of Geralt’s legs over his shoulder and bearing down with deep thrusts that caused sparks to dance up his spine.

 

Gods and monsters, he would not last long like this.

 

Emhyr's thrusts sped up, and he took Geralt in his hand in the same rhythm: two, three, four times - enough to send him spiralling into pleasure, Emhyr pushing deep and following him down. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes open throughout, loathe to miss Emhyr give himself over to base, sexual gratification. Which was why he was watching when Emhyr turned and pressed a kiss to the side of Geralt's knee where it remained draped over his arm.

 

Emhyr missed half a breath, and then began to withdraw as if it he had not made such an intimate gesture.

 

“I will get you a cloth,” he said, not meeting Geralt's gaze.

 

Not knowing what to do, but not wanting the moment to go unremarked, Geralt sat up a little faster than he’d meant to, still riding the edge of his release, which brought him face to face with a slightly startled Emhyr. Geralt leant forward half an inch and kissed him as he had wanted to, chastely at first, but after a second Emhyr placed both hands on Geralt's face and deepened it, until they were kissing as one would at the start of fucking, not the end.

 

They parted eventually, and Geralt lay back to marvel at his life choices, and wonder how in seven hells they had brought him to this point. He was roused rudely from his stupor less than five minutes later by a wet wash cloth landing in the centre of his chest.

 

He retort was swallowed by the sight of Emhyr, naked and regal, stood at the end of the bed.

 

“Come, take a bath with me.”

 

~*~*~

 

Geralt kissed Emhyr again, unable to get enough now he had been given permission. For his part Emhyr had let Geralt distract him from every endeavour he had attempted since they entered the bathhouse, so they were less clean and more wet than one would have hoped after half an hour.

 

“Come to bed.” Emhyr demanded, finally, and walked back towards his bedchamber without checking if Geralt would follow or not.

 

In bed again, and mostly clean, they kissed and stroked each other to completion, Emhyr tipping Geralt over the edge by saying roughly in his ear, “I have thought about this many times”, before biting the meat of his shoulder.

 

After, they lay together in the dark, Geralt on his back and Emhyr faced away from him and sleeping lightly, but despite his earlier exertions sleep would not come.

 

“I can hear you thinking.”

 

Perhaps not asleep then.

 

Geralt made to rise, not sure of his own intentions, but Emhyr turned and placed a strong hand on him.

 

“You are free to leave as you wish, but you are equally welcome here.”

 

There was not enough light for a normal human to see by, but Geralt had long been far from that, however he still could not discern the meaning of Emhyr's expression.

 

He lay back down and Emhyr lay down as he was, turned towards Geralt with his hand warm around his arm.

 

They slept.

 

~*~*~

 

When he had woken the following morning, he had been alone in the massive bed, and had discovered Emhyr at his desk with an attendant, signing sheet after sheet of thick, cream paper.

 

He had announced, without looking up from his writing, that Ciri and her fiancé were due in a fortnight if he, Geralt, wished to see her, and that in the meantime there had been some reports of horse theft in the area he was currently staying. Furthermore, he was welcome to stay in the palace of course – it was only fitting for the man who had raised the Empress.

 

At the time, Geralt had felt something like gratitude tumble in his chest for the excuses Emhyr had provided for him, but now he found himself unsure of his motivations for staying, let alone Emhyr's for having him. The Emperor never made a single move without a spider's web of counter moves rippling outwards in ever larger circles. It was why Geralt had always avoided spending too much time in the company of nobility and royalty.

 

It was also why Geralt had saddled Roach and ridden out of the city gates to the first tavern he could find, and was now slowly working through a bottle of cheap rum he had convinced the owner to part with in return for a half a crown.

 

He'd been here for five hours, by his count, and he had mostly been left alone. It had started to get busy as the first field workers came in for their evening meal, and there was now a low buzz of conversation around him, working it's way under his skin.

 

“...As if anyone could kill 'im, I heard ten men magicked in his bedchamber an' he still survived. I bet he sleeps in chain mail, I would, if I had the enemies he does.”

 

Not treasonous talk as such, but it still caused Geralt to turn sharply and catch the eye of the man who had said it. He blanched at the look at the witcher's face, and Geralt turned back to his drink, aggrieved at his own response. Of all the men in all the world, Emhyr var Emreis was least likely to need his protection. Still though, the thought would not leave him, as it hadn't over the long five months he'd wondered the northern lands: how close had Emhyr come to death that day, and all the days before that one?

 

~*~*~

 

“You should sulk in a tavern outside the city gates more often... if this is how it inspires you,” Emhyr panted.

 

Geralt gritted his teeth and inched Emhyr's leg a little higher, chasing an extra millimetre of depth, he could just hear the edge of an involuntary noise that Emhyr was making with every thrust, and he wanted more of it, he wanted the Emperor to fall apart in his arms, to give himself up to him, Geralt of Rivia, to a monster hunter full of blood and filth, full of all the terrible choices he had made.

 

After they were both done, Geralt leant his head against Emhyr's shoulder whilst he wrestled with his breathing and thoughts. Emhyr, apparently somewhat privy to the turmoil of the witcher's mind, stayed silent, his hand wrapped securely around the back of Geralt's neck, until he had at least his breathing under control.

 

“What happened to the assassin?” Geralt asked, abruptly. They had retired once again to the bathhouse, and now soaked in the heat side by side.

 

Emhyr looked surprised or, more likely, allowed himself to look surprised.

 

“He is dead.”

 

Geralt nodded to himself, as if he hadn't known that this would be the case.

 

“Who was he?”

 

“A minor son of a minor house, which has been wiped from the face of the earth in entirety.”

 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at that, although it should not have surprised him.

 

“How many monsters have come close enough for you to feel the stink of their breath on your skin, witcher?” Emhyr inquired, after a pause.

 

Geralt snorted and looked away, feeling exposed and ridiculous.

 

“It is a little too late in our respective careers for us to realise that we are men, not immortals, I feel.”

 

Geralt moved closer and kissed Emhyr, who indulged his crude attempt at defection.

 

“Bed?” Geralt suggested after some minutes had passed.

 

“Yes, I think so. Not all of us are able to laze abed until well past dawn.”

 

Geralt simply smiled his most charming smile and gestured for Emhyr to go first up the stone steps that led to the royal bedchambers. He then took the opportunity to slap one firm arse cheek as the Emperor of the North and South ascended regally in front of him. Emhyr stopped dead on the steps and turned, his lips slightly parted and eyebrows raised to their uppermost heights.

 

Geralt grinned at him, and sauntered past.

 

He swore he heard Emhyr muttering about hanging as he dried off, but he chose to ignore it.

 

~*~*~

 

It had been an easy choice to make: stay for one of the numerous celebration days that Nilgaard held, or head out west where there had been reports of a beast eating its way through a village on the other side of bald mountain. Now, however, he was regretting his choice to take a hard day's ride over sleep after slaying what had been a cave troll.

 

When he finally reached the city gates he ignored the shocked looks of people as he passed. He was glad he’d had the foresight to get rid of the worst of it in a nearby stream before he’d mounted Roach. He had imagined that in this state his welcome would only extend to using the baths shared by the Imperial Guard, but the thought of hot water had been the only thing to keep him on his horse for the last four miles. However, when he arrived at the palace gates he was passed from servant to servant until he came face to forbidding face with Emhyr’s assistant chamberlain, who showed him to a hot, perfumed bath in Emhyr’s quarters, with a shallow trough next to it for rising off first. Geralt was too exhausted to question the fact he seemed to have been given free access to the Emperor's rooms, and simply stripped, handing each piece of armour to a servant. His swords had been taken at the door, of course, but Cledwyn's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline every time Geralt a removed item of clothing and revealed another weapon. Eventually he was naked though, and left in peace to slough off the worst of the blood and... was that brain matter?... before sliding into the slightly too hot bath and shutting his eyes.

 

When he came fully back to himself, he was stood dripping tepid bathwater all over the rugs, with a hand around the throat of His Royal Majesty, Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, whilst Emhyr himself made an impressive effort to order his guards to stand down, despite the lack of oxygen he was currently being afforded. Geralt let go immediately, stepping closer to Emhyr and cupping a damp hand to his cheek whilst Emhyr got his breathing back under control.

 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s quite alright, I have learnt a valuable lesson in disturbing a seemingly lightly dozing White Wolf.” he said, his voice slightly roughened, and then he turned his head to press a light kiss to the edge of Geralt’s palm where it lay on his face, before stepping away to demand that towels to be bought at once, and a servant to find him a high necked tunic to wear.

 

Geralt stared after him for a second before accepting the towel offered to him. Ciri was arriving in three day's time, and he had yet to decide how to frame 'I'm fucking your father' in a way that would not result in incredulous laughter and possibly a black eye.

 

He was probably going to leave it to Emhyr and be done with it.

 

~*~*~

 

They had been having this conversation on and off all afternoon, in between convincing the poor captain of the guard that the Emperor was perfectly safe in Geralt's company, yes, even outside the city gates, and yes, even without a full company of men.

 

Geralt was trying to get Emhyr to admit that it had been his plan to get him to come to Vizima and 'take himself in hand' as Emhyr had put it, all along. So far the only thing that Emhyr had admitted was that perhaps he should not have placed his trust in loyalty over the necessary attributes of ability and common sense.

 

“Captain Sorren comes from an excellent House,” Empyr had protested, mildly.

 

“He sent his teenage son in his stead, _who didn't know what 'oil of a sword' was.”_

 

“A error in judgement on his part, admittedly.”

 

Geralt snorted.

 

“I had thought it reasonable at the time to send a such a man after yourself, a man I trusted - you were the closest witcher after all. However, I admit that, on rare occasion, the full extent of my motives are hidden even from myself.”

 

Geralt stared for a second to make sure that Emhyr was not indulging in an heretofore undiscovered tendency towards jest before laughing loudly enough to startle the stable girl, who had been bringing them their horses, to a dead stop in the middle of the courtyard.

 

“‘ _On occasion the full extent of my motives are hidden even from myself_ ’ Holy Melitele’s tits, Emhyr, I think you mean ‘I don’t know,’” Geralt squeezed out the words between wheezing laughter.

 

The stable girl continued towards them at Emhyr's small gesture, and they mounted their horses, Geralt still chuckling to himself still whilst Emhyr cast him annoyed looks from under his lashes, unwilling to continue such a debate in front of witnesses.

 

Once they were seated, they rode down the streets and out into the gathering gloom of the fields beyond the city gates. The last of the evening sun striped though the trees and cast long shadows that reached out to run up the two horsed men as they rode into the dusk, framing them in light and dark, light and dark, light and dark.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Beta'd by the ever delightful [SlumberousTrash ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlumberousTrash/pseuds/SlumberousTrash). 
> 
> 2) This is all [astolat's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat) fault and you should go read all of her [Witcher fic](http://archiveofourown.org/series/621487) because it's phenomenal.
> 
> 3) As far as canon goes, I have read half of one of the books and astolat's fics. That's it. So, er, sorry?
> 
> 4) I have a [tumblr](http://xpityx.tumblr.com/)! Prompts are welcome :)


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